Inside a Sparkly Pink Box

 

     I have set a few milestones over the course of my life intended to mark the possibility that, perhaps, I might have reached the point of being an adult once I met them.  Even now, I'm far from being grown up, and when I actually turned 18, doing so didn't make me feel like an adult either.  In my mother's house and under her roof, there were no magic numbers granting adulthood.  I'm sure most of you grew up with the same understanding of the law of your momma's house.  However, after I graduated from college, settled into work, and was brave enough to have my own post office box, a card similar to the one shown above came to my mailbox.  It wasn't addressed to, "Mrs. Bebe Campbell & Danna," for the first time in my life.  It was addressed to just me.  I recognized the penmanship, and I delighted in a signature that even resembled an artist's paint pallet.  Mrs. Cohenour began sending me my own Christmas cards about twenty years ago, and annually after Thanksgiving, I anxiously awaited the mail to arrive every day because I wanted to receive the year's art lesson just one more time from my beloved elementary school art teacher.

    The above card's cover is a portion of a larger work entitled Dancing Angel, the work is French from 1480.  Its composition is oil and gold on wood with three panels each being 54 x 23 inches.  It was purchased for the Metropolitan Museum of Art by Mary Wetmore Shively Bequest in memory of her husband, Henry L. Shively, M.D.  With every Christmas card has come an art lesson similar to this one.  When I was an elementary student in her classroom, I understood primary colors, texture, clay, the power of the kiln, and the importance of filling my page with color.  As I grew older, my lessons were raised beyond those elementary classroom tools; she educated me and many other students also known as Christmas card recipients about her love of true art, an "impression" that will never leave me. 

   At times, my eyes are open just enough to recognize those moments in life when connections come to me.  When I write "connections," I don't mean those that are professional, friendly or associated with electrical cords filled with twinkle lights.  I mean connections like puzzle pieces that fall from anywhere but a box.  I'm always late to see the whole picture, but when I do, I find a lesson that encourages me to look closer.

  Last week,  a bright eyed, kind, and very proud little girl delivered to me a gift that had a wall cling wrapped up in the cutest gift bag.  The cling said, "Be Who You Are."  This wall cling even had adhesive rhinestones to kick up the bedazzle factor, and you know I love words in general, but if they sparkle, then that's a whole different kind of love.  Even at forty-two, I don't have an inkling of who I am outside the traditional familial terms.  Professionally, I know I'm a teacher.  But when it comes to those adjectives that stick by my self image, I have a tendency to be hesitant to find the right ones.  The only word I know that truly identifies who I've been all of my life is a student.  So, just by being thoughtful enough to select a gift, carefully wrap it in an adorable bag, and pass it on to me, a complete stranger, a little girl reminded me about being a student of Mrs. Cohenour.  Mrs. Cohenour would have loved wall art that says, "Be Who You Are."  She would have loved the beautiful penmanship, she would have loved the sparkles, she would have loved having that conversation with me about the importance of never having just one response to that imperative statement, "Be Who You Are." She would have handed me an over sized piece of paper, some soggy paint brushes and the three primary colors and said, "Show me who you are today." And I would have drawn a huge smiling face because I was with her.

  This is my first year without a Christmas art lesson from Mrs. Cohenour.  Thankfully, I have several past Christmas art lessons from her that will be with me for many Christmases to come.  I wish I could say I had them all from years gone by, but I didn't have enough sense to keep them all tucked away in a colorful, sparkly, appropriate place as she would have loved.  For years, they've  all been carefully placed in a dark pink box, adorned with glitter and a big pink bow. It was the prettiest box I had ever seen, and I wanted Mrs. Cohenour's cards to fit perfectly inside, and they do.

  Mrs. Cohenour would want me to buy a newer, brighter, more sparkly box because the one I have needs a companion box. Something to celebrate the beauty of the Christmas cards it will hold until I fill it up, too.  She would want the new box to have even more color.  She would want me to write on its outside, "Be Who You Are," in my very best penmanship to remind me to listen to what children say, and read what they write or especially what they give.  Maybe I'll go shopping for that new box  tomorrow knowing that an angel, the beauty of whom even Michelangelo couldn't capture, will guide my selection and continue to be my beloved art teacher just one more time.

  

25th year

***Got so excited I lost track of time...literally....forgive the math...as usual.****

     I am going to a class reunion in 2014.  Twenty-five years after I graduated from high school, I'm going to do it.  Before I peck out another word, I need to apologize to my mom and Deb Brogan because I've been harshly critical of their reunion blisses for many years.  I'm not sure what it is about graduating from high school together that bonds alumni for life, but I can absolutely tell you why I've finally grown up enough to value my childhood education and the fun we all had together. 
     I will never ever meet another childhood friend's children at a funeral.  Never.  Out of all the goodness I have received in 2013, above all, I'll see those three little boys sitting on Exeter Avenue last April for the rest of my life, and I will feel that regret.  I never got to hear their giant of a dad tell their story.  I read about it on Facebook, but I never heard it in person.  Done.  Never again.  Nope.  Line 'em up, a whole decade's worth of kids, because I want to hear the stories from you, from them, from everyone.  I want to photograph a weekend full of joy.  I want to see them play and hear them laugh.  I want to show them your mullets.  I want to dare you with the secrets your teens would pay to hear, and I will beg you to keep my skeletons tucked away with cobwebs interwoven with perms and acid washed jeans.  All of these years I've thought reunions were about the graduates.  This is not the case for me.  I want to see the pieces of you that you're raising.  I want to hear you tell me why you are paying for your raising. 
     Secondary to the tearful goodbye so many of us said to Jay, is something truly reflective of my so not normal mind.  How many of you have a Michael Kors purse or watch?  Come on.  You know you do.  You've been to the outlet.  You've hunkered up to the trunk of a car.  You've been to the party.  You know you've got one or you want one.  If anyone from the MHS class of 1989 reads Facebook and carries anything with an MK label on it, you're way more committed to fashion than I will ever be.  Every single time I see that MK logo, I think about Michael Killion.  If you're fortunate enough to be his Facebook friend, then you know his logo would trump Kors in a heartbeat.  Since day one on Facebook, Michael has entertained, educated, and calmed me with his masses.  Three things my mom has tried to do for my whole life, but he has managed to do since 2009.  He consistently writes about his family, his work, and his gratitude.  Maybe his attention to the good in his life has softened my approach to the good in mine.  The only thing on me that hasn't been soft for a very long time is my approach regarding what should matter in this life.  I see a glimmer of hope.  My eyes are squinted, but it's there.
     Through the mystery of social media, this idea of a decade or longer reunion has grown.  Michael has taken the helm and led us in a...dare I say...march into middle age celebration.  The feedback has been great, but the execution will take some planning. 
     With all due respect to those who made every effort to just get our own class together in years past, I apologize for being so negative, critical, and resistent to your hard work.  Ain't nobody got time for such foolishness now.  As Jay would say, "It's time to do the 'darn' thing."  It just is. There is no need in it being fancy or expensive.  We can all fit in Fords Woods or another Middlesboro location.  We can gather up for the Fall Festival and tell the offspring how much we loved that weekend when we were kids.  Riding the Bullet in the empty lot beside Saylor's Produce will forever be my first step toward being fearless.  The sidewalk sales from downtown may have been our most adventurous municipal experiment during the 70s, but putting a full out carnival in the middle of Cumberland Avenue took a giant leap of faith, and my thanks to whomever made that decision.
     Now, let's talk about the photo I attached to the top of this blog.  That's me.  Seventh grade.  Praise the Lord we didn't have a yearbook at MMS then.  But that was the best I could do on picture day.  The wings sprouted out of the front of my head just missed taking flight.  A corduroy, fleece vest with a cotton blouse? Absolutely.  Can you imagine that kid in today's 7th grade survival camp?  I'm just as goofy today as I was then.  I'm just as awkward and quirky.  Heck fire.  I spent the last few years of my life in 7th grade again just on the other side of the desk.  That picture still is me.  My packaging is bigger, fluffier, and much more confident.  My hair has decided that wings aren't necessary.  My heart, however, is exactly the same.  And...thanks to the kindness of my Facebook friends and the people who've been brave enough to literally hold me up, my heart is happy again.
      So, if you're still not sure about the class reunion experience, let me lay down a few ground rules to help you ease your way back home.  First of all, stop looking in the mirror if you're seeking out anything other than a face that loves you back.  Ain't nobody got time to worry about losing or gaining an ounce in order to enjoy this gathering that will be here in less than a year.  I'm gonna get my wobble on and pray that someone will play music that includes "Cool Summer" (or is it "Crueal Summer") by Bananarama.  You can wobble with me.   It's o.k.  Secondly...don't see this as a point of contrast or comparison.  We're getting together because of a place that makes us all equal.  A town, a school system, and a community need us to all make the effort to come home and boost the economy.  Thirdly...quit thinking about hair you had or hair you don't.  If it leaves one place, it will show up in another.  It's all good.  I'm lucky I haven't pulled every hair on my hard head out.  Fourthly...don't be renting any kind of fancy car to roll up in because you think anyone will judge you otherwise.  If I'm lucky, I'll show up in my mom's big white car that's about the same size as the Buick I drove back when Pioneer and Alpine were about sound systems instead of historical figures and the road behind Balmoral.  And lastly...show up as you are, because that's how we'll recognize the person you were.  We'll be looking for that grin, that sparkle, and listening for that laugh.  Three aspects of our existence that seldom ever change after age five. 
      I'm not looking forward to going backward.  I'm looking forward to the potential the future holds.  I'm looking forward to helping create an experience that is affordable and charitable.  I hope we can all bring food to share with each other and a few dollars to support Cindy Wyatt's program 52 Weeks of Giving at the Middlesboro Community Library.  Most of us spent time in that library digging for help with History Day projects, and Cindy has worked with her team to make the library a truly happy place that offers a program fostering amazing citizens of this planet.  I'd much rather give the money to the kids than use it to buy a fancy dress.  I'm all fancy dressed out.
     As you get those office, secret Santa, and comical gifts of calendars this holiday season, mark off every weekend in October for now.  It's time for us all to just go home and be happy.  Can you imagine?  When Middlesboro decides to book the Fall Festival, perhaps this ambitious effort will come to be.
     When I bow my head with my mom on Thanksgiving, I think I'll say grace for the remote possibility that I may have actually grown up enough to realize how fortunate I am to just have the chance to see you all again.   'Til then....

     
Love,
Danna

What I Must Tell You about Doug.

     Every time I look through the lens of my cameras to take pictures of families today, I know I'm never going to capture an image this perfect.  My mom photographed this moment, and every single detail of it is an accurate representation of my relationship with Dad from the day I was born until the day he died.  I was a lucky kid to grow up in a house that always had a camera ready to work.  This photograph was taken on Christmas Eve, and I'm sure the camera was sitting on the kitchen counter within reach of a my mom while she watched me put Dad in his place...again.

     My five year old memory wants to believe I started my rant on the floor beside him.  I assume, I probably climbed up on the couch to look through the curtains to see who was waiting outside for him.  I also assume I had no idea that I was risking life and limb for (a) climbing on furniture and (b) doing so with my shoes on.  Never being an aspiring cheerleader, I assume my hands are in fists on my hips because I had seen such a pose on television as Florence from The Jefferson's was one of my all time favorite television characters, and she often struck a similar pose when she was mad at George.  Regardless, it was Christmas Eve, and he was leaving, and I was pretending to be mad, but let's face it, I was nosey and apparently not getting the results I thought I had the audacity to demand. I love the way he's casually guarding the door, too.  Even then, he knew I might "bust" loose. 

    I don't write a lot about him.  I don't post a lot of photos of him.  When I stroll through Facebook and see pictures of adult children hanging out with their dads, I admit; I feel a tug at my heart like a blue gill after a cricket.  Then, I snap out of it and wonder,"What in the world I am thinking?"  Nothing about him was easy, but every single thing about him was memorable and noteworthy.

    My dad's greatest gifts to me have nothing to do with flea market finds, snakeskin boots, an endless supply of batteries and film for my cameras (which I miss super much), razor blades in bulk, Disney movies, Barbies, video games, carefully selected jewelry, car stereos, clothes, art, or collectibles.  My dad's greatest gifts to me were the letters he wrote to me from prison.

    I'm writing this because I teach a lot of students whose parents are either in our county jail, another county's jail or in federal prison today on Father's Day, and maybe this will reach one of them who might be sad or feeling left out.

    One student in particular recently found him or herself especially burdened with understanding the concept of an incarcerated parent, and fell to pieces on me after I had the nerve to ask the student for an explanation as to why that child couldn't stay awake in class.  After I got an answer that cut me so deep it reached my early childhood within seconds, I decided it was time to tell that student my story in the company of trained colleagues and explain how letters from prison helped me become a teacher.  It is a decision I will never ever regret. In that moment, I became human to the student.  In that moment, the student realized a parent in prison doesn't give a child a crutch for underachievement as a consolation prize.

    While I was jovially entranced with kindergarten and first grade, the head count in our home dropped from three to two for quite a long time.  My dad was convicted of conspiracy (fancy word for bootlegging) and he was sent to federal prison as a result.  Not his best decision as an employee of law enforcement.  I could spend a lot of time explaining the technicalities of that case, but there's only one detail that truly matters.  He had no idea at the time, but taking the time to write me letters from prison is the best gift my dad ever gave me. 

     That is my first memory of learning that written words can become gifts.  That is my first memory of the importance of a mailman - or mail woman.  That is my first memory of holding my mom's hands while we walked up the marble stairs of the Middlesboro post office to go inside and see Mr. Massengill and Ed Herrell  and buy more stamps, so she and I could write letters to Dad, too.  The memories from letters that those military style white post office jeeps picked up from and delivered to our house are the inspiration that drives me today to encourage children to write from their hearts while sparing them my life's details en masse.

      The letters are not in a nice pile with pink ribbons wrapped around them today.  They're not carefully stashed away so I can pull them out and read them when I'm having a pity party for one.  The letters are gone.  Nothing tangible remains from the years he was in prison because perhaps he thought if the stuff was gone, the memories would leave, too.  No such luck.  The memories are here.  For me, they are not all bad.  For him, I'm sure they redefined damages.  

      I read the letters so often as a kid; I have them committed to memory today.  I remember him writing about walking me down the "isle," which indicated he had planned to maybe take me to Beach Island on Norris Lake; I guess.  I remember telling him he should have said, "aisle."  Had he written "aisle," he would have been on a mission to go to A & P and get some peanut butter; I'm sure.  I remember him refusing to write a capital pronoun I.  His i's were always lower cased, and that made me break out a red crayon and correct his errors.  Without knowing he had done so, he became my first language arts student as I read and graded each letter he ever mailed me.  I'm thankful I have those memories of letters from my dad. 

      I've been his daughter without him here for a dozen years now, and the older I get, the more I look like him.  When I was young, I was terrified I'd end up being his size.  He was afraid of it, too.  We both tried to be on diets together one right after the next, and we were really good while we were actually together.  But as soon as we got away from each other, he broke out the JIF and I headed straight for Clancy's.  In the end of his life, he'd tell me, " They've cut out over half my innards and I've got cancer, and I still can't be skinny."  I always told him God would never let me be skinny because I would dress like a tramp.  Then Dad would remind me that Dolly Parton always said it cost a lot of money to look cheap. We'd laugh until we ached, and I'd always leave with him saying, "Just stay where I can talk to you."

       He has especially been on my mind because I got pulled over last week by blue lights in my rear view mirror.  When asked if I knew why I had been stopped, I said I must have been speeding.  Nope.  Further proof the only thing I do fast is eat.  The officer informed me that my music was too loud. Windows were up, roof was up, I was pretty tightly sealed in my bug. There wasn't another vehicle in sight at 9:50 p.m. on a Thursday night in a small town not to be named.  I'm a 41 year old fat woman in a Volkswagen Beetle who got stopped for playing loud music on a four lane highway.  I learned a violation of this section is a Class C misdemeanor punishable by a fine only of up to fifty dollars ($50.00).  The officer let me go with a verbal warning.  As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot, I thought, "Oh, how I wish I could call my dad."  I wanted to talk to him so badly I felt like my chest was going to burst. 

      But if you're wondering what I was listening to when I stood accused of  my horrible crime of getting my groove on, here are the lyrics,

"Aren't you somethin' to admire, cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror -

And I can't help but notice, you reflect in this heart of mine -

If you ever feel alone and the glare makes me hard to find -

Just know that I'm always parallel on the other side." 

Justin Timberlake did not pen those lyrics about a father and a daughter; I'm quite sure of it.  But every day when I wobble down the hall, I brush my teeth, and I look in the mirror...there is no doubt who's looking back at me.  

   

       That's why I will always have a  Happy Father's Day.

      

     

     



The Smart Girl

     I took this photo in 1983 during regional competition of National History Day; I used a Kodak disc camera.  If I were taken back to Model Lab School on the campus of Eastern Kentucky University, I could take you to the exact spot shown above.  I had no idea when I snapped this photo of a girl I hardly knew that her story would become such an inspiration in my adult life.  She was the smart girl then, and she is the smart girl today.  Let me explain.

     Teri Branson.  Remember that name?  I'll give you a minute.  Teri Branson was my sixth grade language arts teacher, and she changed everything about my educational experience once I encountered her force of grammatical perfection and fierce belief in the power of the spoken word.  Our textbook was named Expressways.  It was blue, and in the back, there was an index of our language's most frequently used verbs written in precise conjugation.  My classmates and I wrote those lists to the point of pain, and she demanded their proper use.  She was unlike anyone I had ever seen in person.  Her hair was modern, youthful, and trendy.   Her makeup was flawless yet dark.  Her penmanship was outside the box yet beautiful.  She wore huge earrings and bracelets that "bangled."  Her grading system consisted of simply five numbers.  Your work earned a one, two, three, four, or five.  No more. No less.  She would never accept less. 

      Teri Branson did not think I was fabulous.  How blessed was I to live a whole 11 years on this earth before I experienced that emotion? Teri Branson didn't want me at the front of the room.  She didn't care if I liked her or not.  She didn't acknowledge my pleading for attention without saying a word.  Nothing I could do garnered her approval.  But the smart girl shown in the above photo earned the approval.  Earned.  Key to this note.

      The girl shown in this picture was a student of Teri Branson before my class.  As we switched in and out of our open concept designed middle school classrooms, I skipped the traditional lap around the library and went straight to the corner room because English was my only hope.  Let me rephrase that.  I liked English.  I hated math.  I liked English, and I wanted my teacher to like me.  I wanted her to pick me.  I wanted to be the best.  I wanted her to keep me and talk to me after class.  I wanted her to coach me to win History Day spoken word competition divisions.  I wanted her to laugh and smile and encourage me.  I wanted her to light up when I walked in the room.  Those were her responses to the girl in the picture. 

       The difference in the girl shown above and me is quite simple;  she did the work.  I only did what came easily.  I wasn't willing to give up time on the phone.  I wasn't willing to give up socializing with anyone and everyone who'd take me in like a stray pup wanting to be fed.  I wasn't willing to STOP thinking about everyone else and START thinking about my own education.  The girl shown above was not a follower.  The girl in the picture worked hard.  She studied hard.  She spoke like an adult.  She wasn't a trivial middle school aged tween with aspirations of winning any popularity contests.  She was smart, and Mrs. Branson knew it.  She knew it, and she found an outlet for the girl's intelligence.  If memory serves me right, that outlet came in the form of speech and maybe debate at a very early age.  Look around you.  How many 12 year olds do you know who have the wits about them to stand behind a lectern and support a side without bias?  That's what I thought.

       After this picture was made, the girl advanced to high school, and I still had another year in middle school.  That divide is one that lasts one calendar year but creates an eon of difference among peer groups during adolescence.  The rise of 8th grade royalty falls to the climb created by being a freshman.  But when this girl became a freshman, and again, if my memory serves me correctly, another shift happened.  Teri Branson would no longer be my language arts teacher.  This girl went to high school and  Teri Branson went, too.  I got one year off.

        Teri Branson didn't follow.  She didn't lead.  I believe with all my heart the position became available and the timing was perfect because both were part of a divine plan.  Stick with me.

         The time between 1984 and 1988  is greatly captured on my film but a little fuzzy and absent from my memory.  The girl jumping a permanent hop scotch board shown in this picture remained just as beautiful and just as smart.  Her dockside shoes, pen striped jeans, and Members Only jacket were traded in for whatever the trend demanded at the time. (Forgive us for acid washed jeans; for we knew not what we were doing.)  Despite my efforts to take pictures of all our lives, I lost her.  This is the only picture I have.  I lost her because by age 14 I stopped caring about being the smart girl.  I stopped following the smart girl.  I had lost my direction on what mattered.  I didn't make good choices.  I didn't care if Teri Branson cared.  I let go of wanting to be a smart girl.  How. Dare. I.

        Over two decades later, a lively little girl in my fifth grade reading class told me all about her cool aunt.  She glowed when she spoke of her, and at some point between fall and summer, she asked if I knew her because we had both grown up in Middlesboro.  I stopped in my tracks and the first words out of my mouth were, "so smart."  That's what I remembered.  I had never let it go.  I may have stopped looking, noticing, and trying...but I never ever stopped the automatic association with the best adjective ever created to describe a young girl: smart. 

         Indeed, I had found Dr. Leah Shannon Cobb, if only by name. 

         That fifth grade niece is now a beautiful, smart young lady.

         Tonight, I sat behind Dr. Cobb while she was the guest of honor at the Claiborne County Adult Education Program's GED graduation ceremony.  She stood before our graduates and their loved ones and she told them her story.  She spoke with the most humble and encouraging voice.  Her words floated from her heart through the air while lending the encouragement we all need to hear regardless of occasion.  She stood before an entire graduating class of adults and reminded them that she once sat in their place. 

         As I listened to her gracefully compare and contrast the impact choices had made on her life then and now, I saw the girl in the picture again.  All the pieces of my puzzle came together.  Teri Branson knew she had found a brilliant, beautiful mind with a spirit to match.  A spirit that could not be contained.  Teri Branson was one of the best teachers I ever had, and I think the girl in the picture would say the same.  Teri Branson had found a student who would become the teacher.  As an educator, I know how brightly that diamond in the rough can shine, and what light it emits when it happens!  Now, I understand.

         Thank you, Dr. Leah Shannon Cobb for spending your evening with us.  I am absolutely sure Teri Branson would write down a five as your score.  A hard-earned and well deserved five. 

         

    

Dogwoods, Baseballs, and A Nasty Cat.

    Spring in this part of the world inspires my neighbors to head for the hills and hunt for chickens that don't look a thing like chickens, cast for fish that are for photos more than food, and follow each other like a line of boy scouts along Lovers' Leap trail behind a groom on the morning of his wedding day.  Winter, especially its end, was bitter for hellofuzzy this year, and I'm trying to give spring the benefit of the doubt.  I'm festively optimistic.
    This time last year, I was buzzing about the tri-state area like maniac in search of the perfect place to snap a picture, on a mission to get to any and all classes on time, and trying to find just the right parking place among a crowded field shared by those who loved what I did for so long on weekends.  I stopped looking at the clock and only looked at the calendar.  I didn't have time to acknowledge minutes and hours.  I barely had time to complete the days.  My mania came from my own design.  There is no one to blame, yet I don't deserve any credit.  Until this past New Year's, I couldn't decide if I was running to or from.  Now, I know.  Now, I know it's time to slow down.
    I was so "busy" (doesn't that word make me sound important) last spring that I couldn't take time to photograph the simple white dogwoods shown in the photo above.  The blooms have been my friends for almost two decades.  I've glowed in pride before their pristine white colors while a happy couple, or two, or more, smiled for my camera.  The pictures were first born from film and later the digital age allowed me to capture and process these dogwoods in a much more timely manner.  I felt as though they deserved a prompt reply after they presented me with such a simple reason to smile.  I like being outside among these dogwoods when pretty dresses flaunt and priss before them.  I can't believe I didn't have time to photograph these simple blooms last April.  The fault is all mine.  The time was there; I just didn't prioritize it.  I shall not make that mistake again.
   Cameras have been my constant companion, sibling if you will, since I was old enough to use a shutter finger.  My papaw kept one handy on the screened in back porch and posed everyone in the junction on his back steps,. which were laden with marbles to spell out initials of his daughters. I'm very fortunate because most of my life was captured on film because someone made me a priority just long enough to snap a picture.  In the blink of an eye...literally...I was stopped and made timeless.  My papaw retired from two professions and made pictures of his dogs, his cousins, and flipped over trains,  yet I couldn't find the time to photograph dogwoods last April.
     Shame on me.
    At this time of year when everything seems to speed up, I've decided I must slow down.  I must take photos of dogwoods.  I must stop on the way to my mom's house and photograph the children and grandchildren of people who watched me grow up.  I must not celebrate a  lively friend's life at his funeral; I must acknowledge it with more than a "LIKE" on Facebook while I watch his lightning fast little boy dash up a gridiron with no fear of being touched before he is in the zone.  I've got to remember that the people who worked with me, for me, and loved me are the ones who pushed me through that tunnel to make something of myself with the people who work with me, for me and love me on the other side.  I've got to stop saying, "I wish it were under better circumstances," when I see my childhood friends.  I want to see them under the best circumstances.
     Doing so means I must come out of my cave.  It means this big ol' bear has to stop hibernating.  It means I am willing to acknowledge we are all more alike than we are different if you'll meet me half way.
   Hellofuzzy can't be a place to only acknowledge grief, sadness, or loss.  I can't come here and write what I'm too afraid to say.  I can't hide behind this keyboard in my floral mu-mu (don't judge) while I eat bon bons and peck out words to tell "you" how much I care and always have.  I used to write, yes, actually write, book after book of journals.  I realized they were all full of gloom and doom, so I burned them one day in Mom's back yard.  I destroyed an amazing Saturday Night Fever garbage can, but I got rid of all that hurt.  For some reason, about twenty years later, I got a hankering to put the same kind of hurt here.  This ain't the place for that.   I've got to rise.  I've got to make you smile.  I've got to give you some reason to be glad you took the time to read this madness because we sure don't need more reason to cry than we've had since baseballs started being knocked out of Heaven last week.
    So, I'll leave you with this thought about what's happening in my life right now.  It is not literary.  It is not gracious.  There is nothing about it right, but I have to just put pride to the side and do the right thing.  I live at this house with four critters.  There are two on the outside and two on the inside. The outside two are beautiful beasts of no burden.  One of the two inside is domestic.  The other is the child of satan.  I live with two felines: Harpo and Alley.  Alley was here first.  She's a typical domestic short haired punk who wakes every morning to do me harm.  I brought Harpo home to combat Alley's evil ways.  Harpo is a lovely long haired feline.  The article in the paper claimed she was Persian.  I'm not so sure about that.  A friend of mine says she's a natural blonde because it says so on her birth certificate.  Well, my birth certificate says I weigh six pounds.  Harpo's birth certificate says she's a Persian.  You dig?  Thought so.
     Well, Harpo is a mess.  She is knotted up and looks like some poor old English sheep dog left to fend for herself in a beauty shop full  of poodles.  Harpo needs some professional help.  Now, in order to make that happen...think about the phone call I'd have to make.  "Hello, my name is Danna Smith, and I'd like to make an appointment to get....um.....my......HARPO groomed. 
     Yes.  That's it.  Groomed.  NOT shaved.  Groomed.  (Please let this person know what a Harpo is.) " 
     I practiced saying "Harpo" instead of that "c" word ten times before I made the call.
     I couldn't say "feline" on the phone.  I can write it, but feline isn't a word that should ever really be said out loud.  It doesn't even feel good when you say it.
     Finally, today I got up the nerve to make the time to make the appointment. 
     I called and managed to make my request without laughing like a 12 year old.  When the conversation with the vet tech was over, I was so relieved.  Thank goodness she didn't ask if I wanted my Harpo bedazzled, which I hear is quite the craze these days.
     So, in a few days, I'll be taking my feline to get her shaved.  It is long overdue.
    ....hellofuzzy....